Snow crunched beneath boots as Leng Xue left Frostpine behind. The stronghold walls, crowned with sharp pine branches stacked high and capped with frost, seemed smaller now that he was walking away from them. Behind him, the air was filled with shouts of farewell, cousins waving, hunters saluting. Ahead, only the endless stretch of white wilderness lay, sloping southward into valleys touched by winds warmer than the ancestral home he had known his whole life. Leng Huan paced beside him, spear slung casually across shoulder, mouth already running with excitement, while Yan carried a small pack, quieter but eyes shining with determination.
As days passed the snow thinned, cracking slowly into patches of mud. Streams, no longer sealed completely, babbled through thaw. For the first time, Xue smelled soil unburdened by eternal frost. It was strange, almost offensive to someone born only among the pines, but at the same time exhilarating. He thought of ancestors who had rarely gone beyond, of Tian who had died never leaving, and he whispered in his heart that every step he took now was for them. The Eternal Tome sat faintly glowing within his soul, silent yet present, as if acknowledging that this was the journey beyond roots into branches.
They met the first southern caravan a week into travel. Merchants dressed in bright cloth eyed them cautiously—three northern youths trailing frost-scent that clung heavily to robes. A man with stubby beard chuckled. "Ah, northerners always so serious. Don't glare like wolves, boys, this is Empire road." He offered dried fruits in trade, muttering as he weighed spears and frost talismans with greedy eyes. The warmth of transaction hit Xue oddly. In Frostpine, trade was respectful; here, every handshake smelled of calculation. He remained calm, but Huan bristled from insult, Yan stiffened nervously. It was here Xue first truly understood what patience would be required outside. His clan's creed was not only philosophy now—it was shield.
By the time they entered the first real town, they had learned caravans demanded coin, strangers mocked accents, and frost techniques were seen as curiosities rather than strength. "Slow snows, weak chills," a youth spit when Huan tried to boast. Huan almost swung spear, but Xue stopped him with hand that trembled slightly yet eyes firm. "We prove by surviving, not shouting." That restraint impressed even locals who sneered, some whispering later of odd northern boy who acted older than grown men.